


The Rose That Lived. A Christmas Extravaganza of Sorts in Five Acts, with a Prelude

by Milotzi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Art, Christmas, Community: hoggywartyxmas, F/M, M/M, Prompt Fic, Reconciliation, Severus Snape Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 10:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17404835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milotzi/pseuds/Milotzi
Summary: Augusta Longbottom wants to see her grandson properly appreciated. All else follows.Severus Snape learns that no wizard is an island.





	The Rose That Lived. A Christmas Extravaganza of Sorts in Five Acts, with a Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowycat/gifts).



> **Disclaimer** : The characters contained herein are not mine. No money is being made from this fiction, which is presented for entertainment purposes only.  
>  **Author's Notes:** 1\. Characters, phrases and ideas appropriated from a multitude of sources including various titles of Christmas songs, European folklore, William Shakespeare and Charles Dickens and, of course, the world of Harry Potter. 2. Thank you so much to my fest beta digthewriter. All mistakes are mine. 3. Picture: pencils on paper, camera filters 4. Corrected version of a tale originally posted at Hoggywartyxmas 2018, as a gift for shadowycat.

**Prelude: _Dominick the Donkey & I Believe in Father Christmas_: Orchestral music playing a medley of Christmas songs until the curtain rises, silence followed by braying and bass recitativo.**

The donkey had not cared for the attention of his owner being taken away from him by the cackling and screeching sounds of the wizened old woman berating the ancient wizard, who had been scratching him behind his ears until she arrived. He nudged the old man, who was watching her broomstick disappear into the August night sky and stroking his long white beard. The wonderful scratching started again.

"Well, so the Befana has decided I am to be Father Christmas," mumbled the wizard, whose stature, white beard, and general demeanor would have ensured him being taken for that personage by any muggle child of the northern hemisphere, "and see to it that her grandson will receive attention and recognition this December on his anniversary or she will bring me coal in January. A nice lad. A bit of a forgotten hero, compared to the Potter boy. War hero and the youngest ever headmaster of Hogwarts. Fifty years already since they were born and Potter receiving all the attention. Again." The old wizard's thoughts turned to another nearly forgotten young headmaster, not so young anymore, not headmaster anymore, and he sighed. Another life derailed by his brother's machinations. "So maybe this is the time to right some of that wrong."

**_Act I. God Rest You Merry Magic Folk, Let Nothing You Dismay. (But They Did Anyway.)_ : Music for Two Indirect Voices. **

**Act I. Scene One. Bass-baritone.**

Severus Snape was bored. And tired.

When he had risen from his near-death bed his decision had been not to want to have anything to do with his past life. Once he was well enough, his pension would allow him to do all those things he had not been able to do before: He would travel and see new places, do research into arcane aspects of potioneering, read as much as he pleased, write fiction and plant a tree or two as his paternal grandfather had suggested every man should. Maybe he would even find that special someone life had denied him so far. Or at least, maybe he wouldn't be so alone all the time.

It had not worked out as he had imagined it would. Sure, his second life had been, well, better than his first. But without someone to share the absurdities of life as well as its joys, Romance (with one or two Muggles he had met on his journey round the world) and even Sex (with a few more Muggles, plus the odd youngish Ministry witch sent to check on the War Hero We Prefer Not to Mention Too Much) had been a wash out in the long run. He was, he decided, the first wizard whose fate it was to actually be an island.

So, once he had been there and done that and decided to settle down somewhere for good, he had picked a small deserted house on an otherwise uninhabited island in the very west of the country he had been to school and taught in, restored it and decided to try his luck with a garden of his own. Alas, his enjoyment of the theory of the thing had not translated into a talent for gardening. For a while, his otherwise unfortunate sense of humour, which so far nobody had been able to appreciate enough to put up with him for more than a year or so, made him carry on regardless. But as he watched his last rose bush wither and die, despite the warm horse manure he had neatly placed around its stem to protect it from the frost, a great sense of ennui came over him.

**Act I. Scene Two. Mezzo-soprano.**

Minerva McGonagall was annoyed with herself.

When she retired as headmistress, her decision had been not to want to have too much to do with her past life. Her pension would allow her to do all those things she had not been able to do before, travel and see new places, do research into arcane aspects of transfiguration, read as much as she pleased, write crossword puzzles, catch up with her relatives and coddle her innumerable greatgreatgrandnephews and -nieces. She looked forward to having her own place again, with her own garden and her own kitchen.

Life should have been good. But as much as she enjoyed all of these activities and the hustle and bustle of visiting family, she found that having her own place was quite a lonely affair without the company of that special someone who she could share the ups and downs of daily life with. Even a friend would do, one who would appreciate her dry sense of humour enough to join in the kind of banter that had enlivened long dinners at the high table at Hogwarts. What a pity Filius and Pomona had decided to retire to Devon of all places so that their visits to Mallaig were far and few between.

When Young Irma Pince had retired, come to visit and moved into her spare room, Minerva had rejoiced. This renewed friendship had been a timely gift, one that meant that she would not have to grow old on her own. Or so she had thought. A few summers ago, Irma had not returned from a holiday but had ended up marrying that young man she had been waxing lyrical about in her correspondence. Minerva was happy for her, she did enjoy the frequent letters she received and the boxes of oranges that reached her from Seville all year round were especially welcome in winter. So there was no reason to feel so upset, but yet upset she was.

As she juiced the last lot of the oranges Irma had sent and then cut the peels into fine stripes, Minerva mulled over what she was feeling and why. By the time she had poured the hot marmalade into jars, screwed on the top lids and turned the jars around, she came to the conclusion that slowly but surely she was turning into her mother. If she was honest, and she tended to be, Minerva hadn't been happy for quite some time. She felt down and bored and alone. And petty. Irma should have married hereafter, she thought, and smiled wryly. Indeed, _there would have been a time for such a marriage after she was gone_ , Like Macbeth's, her own _tomorrows had begun to creep in a petty pace from day to day. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow._ Minerva sighed. She obviously needed a good talking to. If only there was someone other than herself to do that.

 **Act II. _Auld Lang Syne. (Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot)._** Music for Four Direct Voices (Soprano: Luna Lovegood, Mezzo-soprano: Minerva McGonagall, Dramatic tenor: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Bass-baritone: Severus Snape).

**Act II. Scene One. Recitativo and Aria. Mainly Soprano. Interrupted by Dramatic Tenor from Off Stage.**

Letter to be delivered by owl or banshee (depending on whether the recipient is among the living or dead):

_Dear former headmaster/headmistress/head of house/member of staff, dear [insert name],  
I am writing on behalf of the editor of a festsieve the Ministry is trying to put together to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Headmaster Longbottom's taking over the helm at Hogwarts. We cordially invite you to author a contribution to our volume. We would ask you to choose memories that best describe Headmaster Longbottom and his achievements. Your contribution should include a preface in which you make clear why you chose those particular memories._

_With best regards,_

_Luna Lovegood, Ministry of Magic_

_Postscriptum: Since nobody except Professor Binns has bothered to reply to this letter when it was sent out two and a half months ago, I am sending this again as a Howler. I have been asked to write to inform you on behalf of Minister Shacklebolt that "cordially invite" was a misnomer. (I believe his exact words were, "The bloody festsieve will not be a 500 hours memory-thread monologue starting with tales of Godric bloody Gryffindor by Professor bloody Binns, understood? Tell the bunch of slackers they are the chosen ones, no shirking allowed. Non-contribution will lead to a thirty, no sixty, no a hundred-and-sixty percent reduction of pensions and 1,000 points off their former houses, let's see who is the minister here".) Since I assume that many of you will have similar stories to tell and that your time is as precious as mine and since there is obviously not enough space for each and everyone to share each and every memory, I have taken the liberty to put you in groupings or pairings of authors and instructed our owl/banshee to ensure that any communication you wish to engage in with the suggested co-authors will be taken care of. The absolutely final deadline for this is December 20th. If you make me work overtime again because of non-compliance I am personally going to add some nargles to the mistletoe in your annual Ministry Christmas hampers. LL_

**Act II. Scene Two. Aria by Bass-baritone.**  
(All further letters can be taken to have been delivered by Owl.)

_Dear Ms Lovegood,  
Even a dunderheaded bureaucrat as foolish as our Minister will find it difficult to reduce my pension by 160 percent. I am happy to take him to the Wizengamot over anything due to me that I do not receive._

_I take it as read that the purpose of this idiotic venture is to toady up to Longbottom for some political end-game of Shacklebolt's. Does he really believe that any memory of mine will be anything but humiliating to my successor? Pray tell me what he would like me to include, the many times his cauldron exploded when he got his ingredients wrong or that time when he nearly got choked to death had I not intervened? Hardly. I do appreciate that I owe Headmaster Longbottom a debt and that my estimation of his intelligence and character may not have been correct in the past. His success tells its own story. You may use this information if you must._

_I have not seen or spoken to Headmistress McGonagall in over thirty years and I have no inclination to change that in order to bring alive memories of a period in my life that I would prefer to forget._

_I have not been in receipt of a hamper since 1999. Please **do** send "nargles" if you can find them. I'd be happy to test whether including their brains would improve the so-called wit-improving potion the Ministry should have taken off the registry of evidence-based potions a long time ago._

_Sincerely,  
Severus Snape _

**Act II. Scene Three. Aria By Dramatic Tenor.**  
Note on self-destructive Ministry paper, written in another hand and added to the Howler sent to former Headmistress McGonagall.

_Dear Minerva,  
I know that you haven't been feeling 100% lately (or so Pomona tells me) but I have to say that I am disappointed not to have received your contribution when it was you who recommended Longbottom as your successor. What would it look like if you did not include something pretty decent in the festsieve? You owe me, Minerva, for allowing you to retire early. Longbottom is a fine lad but he isn't in the same league you were in and you know it. It's not entirely his fault, as you well know, what with PTSD and so forth. However, Augusta Longbottom has come up with this festsieve idea and has threatened to haunt the Ministry if her grandson isn't honoured properly. Since she hasn't crossed the veil, I take it that means that she is going to turn up on my office door step and decline to leave. I shudder to think what the Prophet would make of that. So do me a favour and come up with something, anything. And do get that annoying man Snape to add something to what you write, too. It might do the lad good to realize that his predecessors remember him fondly. He will be grateful, I should think. And more importantly, so will his grandmother._

_Aberforth sends his love._

_With fond regards,  
Kingsley_

_PS: Mum's the word._  
PPS: My mother says to thank you for the oranges and crosswords you sent.  
PPPS: My mother also says to let you know that, if you need to come down to have an appointment in Harley Street, you are more than welcome to stay with us. I second that. Only please remember that she has no sense of humour whatsoever.  
PPPPS: Which reminds me, Mr Weasley (Ron) has offered to share a memory of his, you know which one. If Snape doesn't cough up some memories we can use I am sorely tempted to include that one instead. It would be worth it just to see Augusta Longbottom's face. 

 

**Act II. Scene Four. Aria by Soprano.**

_Dear Headmaster Snape,  
I will see to it that the following is included in the festsieve: "I owe Headmaster Longbottom a debt. My estimation of his intelligence and character may not have been correct in the past. His success tells its own story. Severus Snape"_

_Yours sincerely,  
Luna Lovegood_

_PS: Just because you do not believe in something does not mean it doesn't exist, Professor. LL  
PPS: I have opened this again after talking to a friend. Are you sure this is the best you can do, sir? LL_

**Act II. Scene Five: Aria by Mezzo-soprano.**

_Dear Severus,  
I am sorry to break a promise and disturb your peace but I have been tasked with making you "see the light" on the Longbottom festsieve by our minister. The irony of the fact that the two of us have been "paired" for what turns out to be a mad idea of Augusta's has not escaped me. I am fairly sure that Neville himself would rather not be the recipient of the concentrated attention of all and sundry. The idea of this festsieve makes me uncomfortable. You may think I have nothing to reproach myself with but I do. I was not as kind to that boy as I should have been. So you weren't the only person I could not see for who they were. I sometimes wonder if I saw anything at all._

_This is more difficult than I thought._

_Here we go: Kingsley has threatened to add Mr Weasley's memories of that DADA class taught by Professor Lupin to what I provide. You know what I am referring to. He pretended he was joking but I'm never sure about his intent when he is jovial, The deal seems to be that we put something together they can use and they might go away again and leave us in peace._

_I'm sure we could come up with something for that festsieve that is not too intrusive for either of us or for poor Neville. Maybe it could be some sort of an apology that only he understands._

_I know you decided not to have anything to do with your old life after the war ended. Should you have changed your mind, I would be glad to have you as my guest here in Mallaig._

_Please forgive me if this is unwelcome. I do not expect a reply._

_With my very best wishes,  
Minerva McGonagall _

**Act II. Scene Six: Duett by Bass-baritone and Mezzo-soprano.**

_Minerva,_  
I have already sent Ms Lovegood the exact wording of what I am willing to contribute. You yourself know best how to express your own "apology", as you put it. I bear you no ill will but see no reason for any further communication.  
Severus  
PS: You haven't been shown Mr Weasley's memory, have you? 

***

_Dear Severus,_  
Please don't let that worry you. I'm afraid I had already seen it in another context (your trial if you must know). Please rest assured that I for my part have never thought you looked ridiculous in any outfit, not even those dratted Death Eater garbs you were forced to wear.  
Best wishes,  
Minerva  
PS: On the off chance you still like them I am including a tin of biscuits. I baked too many for the parish pre-Christmas fair the other day. 

***

_Minerva,_  
It didn't worry me. I was curious. I obviously had heard of the incident at the time.  
S.  
PS: Thank you for the biscuits. I hadn't eaten any ginger newts for decades. Not bad. Nicer than the ones from the Hogwarts kitchens if I remember correctly. And they weren't half bad either. Strange, I never thought I'd remember anything nice from that place. 

***

_It wasn't all bad, Severus. It's what happened at the end that turned it all bleak for you, Poppy said. If you want me to send you more biscuits or if you want me to send you the recipe, all you have to do is to say so. Also: If you have a personal travelling pensieve, I can share my memory of that memory. Or any other memories you might want to revisit. You may not recall what life was like between the wars (or wish to recall) but I myself remember so much of you in those years I cherish. Nice memories in spite of all that came before and after. If you don't have a travelling pensieve, you can also send a spell or password protected phial and I'll do the memories into tears spell. I've always wondered whether onions could do the trick. Or you could always come by and make me cry. (Joke!)  
M._

***

_Ha. Ha. I'm including the phial. The password comes by next owl. What "nice" memories of me might you possibly have worth sharing? Just curious. S._

***  
She (to herself): _It wasn't all bad._

***

_The password is _Ginger Newts_. I wouldn't mind if you included some more of them in what you send by owl. I'd send you a rose from my garden but it died. S._

***

She (to herself) _It wasn't all bad._  
He (to himself) _All I touch dies._

***

**_Act III. Baby, It's Cold Outside._ Duet for Two Direct Voices. Soprano: Hannah Longbottom, née Abbot (She), Baritone: Neville Longbottom (He).**

[A screen shows Hogwarts Castle from afar. It is mid-December. Snow is hesitantly falling from the grey sky onto a dark winter landscape. The camera zooms towards the silhouette of Hogwarts castle until a figure in an open window becomes visible. A middle-aged, slightly balding, slightly overweight wizard in a striped bathrobe is smoking what is obviously not his first cigarette. His wife, plump and buxom, appears behind him. She puts her arms around him.]

She: Why don't you come to bed, love. It's cold outside.

He: I can't sleep. What's the point of getting older when they make you revisit all your childhood traumas whenever it's your birthday and Potterday or an anniversary is approaching.  
.  
She: Your grandmother?

He: And the Minister. He's just sent an owl. His third in two days. They are up to something. I just know it. Why don't they just leave me alone.

She: Come to bed, love. There are some things which it was worth growing up for.

[She nuzzles his ear. He turns around and they kiss. They disappear into the building. A house elf is seen closing the window. The curtains fall.]

 ** _Interval:_** Hot butterbeer, Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, Fizzing Whizzbees, and a selection of other drinks and sweets are available from the shop in the theatre foyer.

 ** _Act IV. Christmas Memories & Hope Was Born this Night_**: The Orchestra plays a medley of Christmas carols until the curtain rises. Musical Pieces for Two Indirect Voices. 

**Act IV. Scene One. Mezzo-soprano.**

When she reads his messages, Minerva doesn't need any help with crying. Curled up in bed she remembers the Christmases they had spent under the same roof. Maybe it is because it is December and she has spent the day putting up Christmas decorations and arranging the Christmas cards on her mantlepiece in her living room that her memories focus on that time of the year when they were still teaching together. She remembers the staff parties Severus had tried to avoid and then enjoyed every year, the trips to Hogsmeade during which everyone had been looking for gifts for each other in the same shops while trying to pretend they did not see each other do the same. She laughs when she thinks of that Secret Santa exchange Albus had insisted they do to cheer everyone up in the year when the horror of the Chamber of Secrets had awoken, when Severus had been so annoyingly sarcastic about the whole enterprise that she had given him every single book written by that prat who had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts that year. She grins when she remembers the look of shock on his face when his "Secret Santa" had turned out not to be Lockhart but herself. His disbelief and embarrassment had been delightful when she had transfigured the volumes back into the re-edited Czech potions classics she had wanted to give him all along and provided him with a translation spell.

They had started giving each other more personal presents the next Christmas, and enjoyed the slightly competitive turn this took when they discovered that their taste in Muggle literature was quite similar and they both loved to read about gardening. Who would give the best book? It turned out it did not matter because she and Severus, who both were quite protective of any books they owned, learned that they could trust each other, and once the one had finished reading one, the other would borrow it. Eventually they discovered a doubling spell that would create two identical if slightly fragile copies out of books. This meant they could spend the later part of Christmas Eve and those hours of Christmas Day and Boxing Day that were not given over to school duties comfortably ensconced on her sofa, with a bright and warm fire lit in the fireside, and read the same book. 

Those Christmases were like precious private book parties for two, with hot toddies or single malt and Christmas nibbles and discussions that sometimes became quite intimate. Well, personal. Like that time that one of the gardening books they were looking at had had a long and detailed section of how to look after a Venomous Tentacula. Intimate, too, in the end.

Late one Christmas Eve, a year or two before the return of that monster Voldemort had turned all that was good into ashes, Severus had looked at her in a new way, leaned towards her, murmured, "Do you know how much candlelight becomes you," and he had kissed her, first lightly, hesitantly, and then with increasing passion as she responded in kind. She cries again when she remembers how right that first kiss had felt and how right the night that followed had felt, too.

When the day broke, he had been gone, taken away from her in the middle of Christmas by the call of that monster, and all hopes either of them might have had for this to become a thing had ended before it had even properly begun. Well her hopes, because she never knew what Severus felt. They had never discussed any of this even when they were still talking to each other. Maybe she had been a fool to think that there could be more but there was one thing that she knew had been true, at least for a good while: They had been proper friends until they weren't any more.

At the thought what was, what wasn't and what might have been, Minerva McGonagall cries herself to a troubled sleep.

The next morning Minerva decides that she will not send Severus her memory of Weasley's memory of the boggart created by Neville Longbottom's terror of him. It was a poor parody of his handsome face and shape in Augusta Longbottom's attire and hat. Too humiliating, Too painful. She also decides to keep her most personal memories to herself. What she includes is a memory of one of those jolly Christmas get-togethers of the four heads of houses, during that short moment between the last day of teaching and the duties of looking after the homesick students who had stayed behind for Christmas and had found that this was not good a time to be away from one's family.

When she has packed the phial, a bottle of single malt and a tin of freshly baked ginger newts into a crate and is about to shrink it for the owl, she hesitates. Then she pulls herself together. Whatever he will make of it, she feels it is the right thing to do. Pomona has sent her some magically enhanced Christmas roses for her garden, and she chooses the sturdiest one, adds it to what is in the crate, wraps brown paper around everything and shrinks the parcel.

The plant is a Helleborus niger, _Potter's Wheel_ , with gorgeous white flowers already in bloom and a number of buds still to come. He will probably take it as an insult because of its name or think of it in terms of potions making but, maybe, just maybe, he will just enjoy its beauty.

**Act IV. Scene Two. Bass-baritone.**

Severus Snape unshrinks the parcel and he stares at its content. He hasn't slept much lately and the white colour of the hellebore is almost too bright. He feels he cannot take it all in and picks the phial from the crate. He stares at it for a while. He has been thinking about this ever since Minerva wrote that she could and would send memories, hers and what she saw of Longbottom's boggart. Does he really want to revisit his past through the eyes of other people? He hesitates but he has actually known what he needs to do for a while. He throws the phial into the fire of his kitchen stove, heats some water and makes himself a hot toddy with the Glenlivet she has sent. He smiles wryly when he hears her sharp voice telling him what a sacrilege it is to use a Scottish single malt of that quality for a hot toddy. Then he sits down and writes a long personal and private letter to Neville Longbottom and sends it off.

Later he takes the hellebore ( _Potter's Wheel_ , indeed) outside and wonders whether it wouldn't be better to throw it into the bin right away. The weather isn't as cold and miserable as it has been and the sun has even deigned to come out for an hour or so in the past few days. He lights a cigarette. Just when he is about to go back in, his eyes catch something pink in the corner of his garden, where his withered rose bush has made a last effort to join the living.

**Act IV. Scene Three. Mezzo-soprano. Bass-baritone.**

It is already quite late on Christmas Eve when Minerva hears a knock on the door. When she opens it cautiously, there he is, slightly more shrunk and with less hair than when she last set eyes on him but more healthy looking, though not sober, a handsome man still, clutching two living plants, the hellebore she sent and a sorry looking dried up rose bush with one defiant half-open pink blossom.

"Can we come in?" he asks.

She opens the door wide to let him enter her home and her life.

**Act V. Christmas Day. (In the Early Morning Hours.) Tableau Vivant. With Soft Orchestral Music.**

Look at Dominick, the donkey, in his stable, nibbling at the fresh hay the old wizard has brought him earlier that day.

Look at the elves in the kitchens of Hogwarts, exchanging gifts and toasting each other.

Look at its former teachers Filius Flitwick and Pomona Sprout fast asleep in their beds.

Look at Poppy Pomfrey sharing a joint with another mediwitch on the other side of the world.

Look at Irma Pince and her Spaniard on the way home from a party and enjoying a kiss under an orange tree full of blossoms and fruit.

Look at Luna Lovegood sitting on the roof of her house. She is wrapped up in a blanket heated by a warming spell and is looking into the night sky in expectation of what miracles might come her way.

Look at Augusta Longbottom, who, like every Christmas for fifty years now, is sitting next to a bed in St. Mungo's and watches over her son and daughter-in-law.

Look at her grandson and his wife in the Headmaster's big bed in Hogwarts School, as they explore again and again the joys of marital life. On the nightstand next to them there is the festsieve, which Neville has declined to look at so far as well as a letter in a spiky hand which he has been perusing again and again all day.

Look at the two former occupants of his post, miles away from the school each of them ran for a while, in a bed much less grand but also much more comfortable, their limbs entwined in post-coital bliss. Severus has one arm around Minerva. In a minute he will fall asleep but not yet, he thinks, as his fingers play with her hair.

Look at the wizard who might be Father Christmas and the beautiful smile on his face as his lover, the minister, forgets about affairs of state or what is due to his status and sneaks one arm around him and begins to stroke his long white beard.

Hear Aberforth Dumbledore murmur, "God bless us all, everyone," before he forgets all in the pleasure of his lover's touch.

**Curtain.**


End file.
